Response, made February 3d, 1887, at the meeting of the “Military
Order of the Loyal Legion,” in Topeka, to the toast,
“Reminiscences:”
“Words that bring back the feelings of our youth,
The words of men that walked in war’s red ways,
The simple words that, giving blame or praise,
Ring down the echoing avenues of life.”
I do not expect, Mr. Chairman, that any words of mine can “bring back
the feelings of our youth.” Time takes something from us, as the years
come and go, that it never gives back, and the lights and shadows of
twenty-five eventful years have fallen upon us since we first “walked in
war’s red ways.” But I may, perhaps, interest you for a brief time by a
description of one of those walks—the march of a day, which had its
counterpart in the marches of all armies, on many, many days.
A column is moving along a dusty road, with a long, free, swinging
stride, that seems as easy as it is masterful. It started out, before it
was light, in compact order, each man in his place, each company,
regiment, brigade and division following in its appointed order. It is
the middle of the forenoon now, and the solid formation is somewhat
disordered. The men have fallen into irregular groups; some hunt the
smoothest places in the road, and the paths thus formed, single or
double, are not always straight. Some are following the cow-paths along
the roadside; others keep the center of the highway. At intervals are
little groups of horsemen—the commanding officer, the adjutant, and an
orderly, at the head of the regiment; the next in command, with the
surgeons, in the rear. Midway between these mounted officers, always in
line, and always surrounded by a little group of non-commissioned
officers, are two soldiers carrying, not guns, but what seem to be long
poles encased in black oilcloth. They are the flags of the regiment—the
battle-flag and the regimental banner.
Sometimes, for hours, only the steady tramp of feet is heard. The men
are as silent as if they were dumb. Then something sets all their
tongues awag, and the woods and fields echo with their shouts and
laughter. They comment on everything—on the houses, the fields, the
trees, the road; they jibe at and joke with one another; they are a
moving mass of blue interrogation points, questioning everyone they see
about distances, country, and people; and their laughter is as care-free
and contagious as that of happy children.
Then a clear bugle-note comes floating down the line, and the column
dissolves on the road-sides. In an instant, almost, the men assume all
varieties of postures—some sitting, some lying down—for the bugle-call
meant a rest of five or ten minutes. The stragglers come up, one by one,
and drop in with their commands. Then the bugle sounds again, and all
start to their feet. They fall into line with the precision of a
machine, and move on, to again, in a few moments, fall into their old,
irregular, go-as-you-please step and route.
The hours come and go, and the miles slip by, five, six, ten, perhaps,
and then the bugle sounds another call—a welcome one, for it is greeted
with a shout. But this time the moving column does not dissolve so
quickly. It closes up in compact order, and the guns are stacked in
groups of four; on these are hanged cartridge boxes, blankets, and other
incumbrances. A few moments later, little volumes of smoke—hundreds or
thousands of them, as far as the eye can reach along the road—roll up,
and the atmosphere is filled with the perfume of burning pine, the aroma
of coffee, and perhaps the savory smell of bacon.
With what crude and meager utensils—at most, a tin pot or cup, and a
small skillet—it is all done; and yet how quickly and deftly. But no
dinners these men have ever since eaten were more enjoyed than those
their own hands prepared as they halted by the roadside a quarter of a
century ago.
The dinner cooked and eaten, the march begins again, with the same
routine of shouting and laughter, or silence and meditation. It is
business, all of it—simply moving along, hour after hour, and mile after
mile, until the sun drops low in the west, or perhaps for hours after
the night has gathered and darkness has fallen upon the earth. Fifteen,
twenty, twenty-five, and occasionally thirty miles—these were the
distances frequently covered by these long blue columns, each man
carrying his house on his back, like a snail, and in addition, his gun,
forty rounds of ammunition, three days’ rations, his cooking utensils,
and his bed.
Sometimes these marches were made in pleasant weather, when the air was
full of the perfume of flowers and melodious with the songs of birds.
Sometimes they were made when the skies were leaden, and the clouds hung
low; when rain poured down, hour after hour, and the roads became
quagmires, and the men were soaked and chilled to the bone. Sometimes
they were made in midwinter, when the ground was frozen, and the north
wind cut like a knife, and at every step the road was stained with the
blood of bruised and broken feet. Sometimes the route lay along pleasant
lanes, or dim old country roads, or through quiet and shadowy woods,
rich with odors of fir and pine; sometimes it followed, for days, the
hard, white pikes, over which the dust hung like a cloud, thick, heavy,
stifling. But no matter what the weather or the roads might be—whether
the rain poured down in torrents, or the sun beat upon the column like a
fiery furnace, or the cold of winter chilled and froze—the regiments
formed and marched whenever orders came.
The long lines dwindled steadily and fatefully. Regiments that had once
mustered a thousand men, were reduced to two or three hundred; companies
that had answered to roll-call an hundred strong were mere squads of ten
or fifteen. But as their long columns shrank, and each soldier’s place
in the line drew nearer and nearer to the faded and tattered flag in the
center, it seemed to grow dearer and more precious to their hearts. They
followed it, upheld it, loved it, with an earnestness and devotion
without parallel. Following it, hardships and privations were welcomed;
upholding it, dangers and sufferings were laughed at; and to protect it
the humblest and roughest of them all would have cheerfully and proudly
given his own life. I have heard men, of late years, deny the existence
of such a thing as disinterested patriotism. But the soldiers of the
Union exemplified this splendid sentiment during every moment of their
lives. No difficulty could dampen their ardor, no repulse could shake
their confidence in final victory, no toil or suffering could perplex
their faithful loyalty. The flag represented the Republic; to serve it
was a soldier’s duty; to die for it was a soldier’s fate.
The months rolled on and lengthened into years, and still these men
marched, and fought, and suffered, and died. And at last came Victory,
and Peace, and Home. Their toils and privations, their trials and
dangers, were over at last. They had filled the world with the splendor
of their achievements. They had exalted and glorified the American name.
They had preserved, for all the generations of men, the priceless
heritage of free government. They had lifted the old flag into the very
heavens, its blue field glistening with every star that had ever
sparkled there, its crimson stripes bathed in the red blood of five
hundred thousand patriot heroes, and its pure white folds as stainless
as the shining souls of those who had died to save it. They had broken
the shackles of four million slaves. They had enriched history with such
a record of great deeds as never before illuminated its pages. And then,
quietly and modestly, they went back to their homes—
——“Satisfied to pass
Calmly, serenely from the whole world’s gaze,
And cheerfully accept, without regret,
Their old life as it was.
“They who were brave to act,
And rich enough their action to forget—
Who, having filled their day with chivalry,
Withdraw, and keep their simpleness intact,
And all unconscious add more lustre yet
Unto their victory.
“On the broad Kansas plain,
Their patriarchal life they live anew—
Hunters as mighty as the men of old;
Or harvesting the plenteous yellow grains,
Gathering ripe vintage of dusk branches blue,
Or working mines of gold.
“Or toiling in the town,
Armed against hindrance, weariness, defeat,
With dauntless purpose not to swerve or yield,
And calm, defiant strength, they struggle on,
As sturdy and as valiant in the street,
As in the camp and field.
“Thus in the common fields and streets they stand;
The light that on the past and distant gleams,
They cast upon the present and the near,
With antique virtues from some mystic land
Of knightly deeds and dreams.”